


The Great Beyond Deleted Scenes: the South Dakota Badlands (Act II)

by ElsieGlass



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Bonding, Coming of Age, Dystopian, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElsieGlass/pseuds/ElsieGlass
Summary: This scene was deleted from Act II (Big Drift) of The Great Beyond series.Ellie and Joel bag supper in the South Dakota Badlands, and bond over the campfire. Joel tells Ellie a story about the Native Americans and they band together to fight a menace.
Relationships: Ellie & Joel (The Last of Us), Ellie Williams - Relationship, Joel Miller - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71





	The Great Beyond Deleted Scenes: the South Dakota Badlands (Act II)

**Author's Note:**

> This was a deleted chapter from [Act II (Big Drift)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336039) of [The Great Beyond](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589026) series, my ~300k-word long-fic based on The Last of Us video game (2013) by the game development studio, Naughty Dog, a Bruce Straley/Neil Druckmann joint.
> 
> The Great Beyond is a work of fan fiction based on The Last of Us video game (2013) by the game development studio, Naughty Dog, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Sony Interactive Entertainment. Additional names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
> 
> While this story makes reference to actual events and people, certain characters, characterizations, incidents, locations, and dialogue were fictionalized or invented for purposes of dramatization. With respect to such fictionalization of invention, any similarity to the name or to the actual character or history of any person, living or dead, or any product or entity or actual incident is entirely for dramatic purposes and not intended to reflect on any actual character, history, product, or entity.
> 
> I support the inalienable right to free expression and the inherent value of copyright. I hope my work encourages and inspires writers everywhere to create and make their own works that greatly enrich their lives and the fan fic culture.
> 
> Copyright (c) 2020 by Elsie Glass.
> 
> All rights reserved. 
> 
> ElsieGlassGlass@gmail.com
> 
> [Twitter @ElsieGlass20](https://twitter.com/ElsieGlass20)  
> [Insta @realelsieglass](https://www.instagram.com/realelsieglass/)
> 
> Happy reading! Xo
> 
> [You can find Act I of The Great Beyond here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075489)
> 
> [You can find Act II of The Great Beyond here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336039)
> 
> [You can find Act III of The Great Beyond here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564579)

Deleted Scene from Act II of The Great Beyond

“Wildfires,” Joel says. “Once this whole place was green and rolling. What do I always tell you?”

“About what?” I ask.

He gestures at the lurid black valley stretched before us.

I cue-up one of his adages about fire. He hates wildfires. “It’s your servant when it’s under control and your enemy when it gets away from you.”

“That there’s a menace.”

We tie dampened shemaghs over our noses and mouths, and tread the valley. It feels like we’re on another planet. Another solar system. A charred sooty wasteland of skeletal trees, burnt-out barn-like structures, and blackened fences. Soft deep black ash muffles our footsteps. Gritty powder rises into choking dust, coats our clothes, and stings our eyes. Uprooted timber lays on its weakest sides, felled by strong winds. A hawk lays injured on its side and tracks us with remote terrified eyes, its singed feathers fanned haphazardly. 

Joel notices a deeply-etched rut fanning toward the horizon. “This’ll lead to water. A stream, a bog—can’t be far off.”

“Do you know where we are?” I ask.

“Somewhere in the great territory of South Dakota.”

We jog the rut till it crosses the fire-line, and we come to a trickling creek lined in cottonwoods and oaks. Along a marshland border of shoulder-high reeds, slender woodcock-grazing holes perforate the mud in haphazard swirls. Joel yanks down his shemagh and hands me his pistol. “Go on. Wake them up. Bag us some supper.”

I reluctantly take it from him. “Chambered?” I ask.

“Full up.”

“What if there’s bears?”

“Swamp bears?” he asks.

“Alligators?”

“You won’t see them much longer after they see you. You know that.”

“Infectids?”

“I’ve got your back.” He takes me by the shoulder and looks at me directly. “Now, they’re gonna rise pretty near quick and twist to one side so you’re gonna wanna hold just above them without any side motion. Check your swing. They’re quick but their wings’ll whirl and it’ll sound like they’re moving twice as fast. Keep ahead of them. Don’t shoot too soon—there’s plenty of time. Swing at the same rate you’re flushing till you fire. Make your shot count. Make it painless—don’t make them suffer.”

“How far ahead do I keep?” I ask, bewildered.

“Well, that depends on their speed, how far away they are, their angle of flight, and the wind speed.”

I try to hand him back his gun. “You’re a better shot.”

He won’t take it. “Get going.” He gestures toward a low-lying dip between the reeds. “Trot along now. Kick ‘em up some.”

I slip sideways through a dip in the stalks. With a rush and a roar, feathered dozens dart upwards and wobble into corkscrew flight, whistling the tall grass. Heart racing, I send up a shot. A large dark form spirals earthbound at an angular pitch. Joel strides past me and disappears through the tall grass ahead. I slip the pistol to appendix carry and cut through the reeds till I find him crouched over a dark mass of feathers. “What’d I bag?” I ask.

“Killing them’s more luck than skill,” he says, “and you just bagged two in one shot.” He lifts them by their long beaks and strokes them with a gentle admiring hand before slipping them under his shirt and packing them against his chest. I suppose the plump warm birds with their soft feathers feel very nice against his bare skin.

We follow the marsh to bronzed corn fields. Crows caw insolently, rise, and settle on the branches of an immense spindled oak. We stop and hack a couple ears of corn for dinner. The sun sets and the shadows lengthen. We reach a plateaued hill halfway up a wooded juniper rise, which looks out over the land. Joel stops and looks around. “I reckon we’ll camp here,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer you keep your mouth shut. Just listen to me and do as I say.”

I nod my head, yes. He’s not feeling talkative. So what.

After a dinner of spit-roasted woodcock and corn, we lay flat rocks over the leftovers for our breakfast. We recline against the sun-warmed rocks and look out across the land. A breeze stirs. When it stops, I hear faint vibrations thrumming in the distance. Joel must’ve heard it, too, because he knifes a hand over his eyes and scans the horizon. I follow his gaze to the northeastern valley ledge where a dust cloud billows past a line of ragged buttes.

“Horses!” I yell. I know he asked me not to speak but I can’t hold back my excitement whenever I see horses. When he told me people in the Old World owned big status symbols like houses, cars, and boats, I never felt like I was missing-out. I wouldn’t have wanted to own any of those things. To be responsible for complications or tied down to something big and cumbersome. But the thought of owning my own horse is one of the most exciting things I could ever imagine happening to me in the world.

“Them’s horses,” he says.

“Riders?” I ask.

“If they are, they’re fanning it. Riding like hell.”

“Wild?”

“Startled or being driven.”

“Moving away from us?”

He nods his head, yes. We track the long string of black dots as it curls along the precipice and funnels toward the horizon, clouded in a dusty whorl.

“Think we could ever get one?” I ask.

“And where do you suppose finding one?”

“Like one of those,” I say, meaning the wild horses.

“A man who can’t take care of his horse isn’t entitled a horse.”

“I’d take care of it! I’d sleep with it!”

He laughs dryly. “We’re better without, close to the ground. The land out here’s too treacherous. Too many pitfalls and hidden breaks. One stumble would be disaster. They’d scare away big game and lure wolves. Just like moons and tides wax and wane, so do animals’ scents. They grow and diminish. A horse would just expose our trail, leave us pursued.”

“Who’s pursuing us?” I ask, baffled. I’m not asking to be difficult. Who's coming after us?

“Reckon your feet hurt,” he says, ignoring my question.

“Why?” I ask.

“I suppose you want a horse ‘cause your feet hurt.”

“My feet don’t hurt.”

“Back in my day, folks too tired to walk hitch-hiked.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Picking-up rides from strangers as they traveled along. It was the cheapest way to travel quick.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Thrill-seekers.”

“Life was so boring, people went looking for trouble?”

“Some folks thought the journey was more exciting than the destination itself. The trip between was what counted. Setting-off, not knowing if you’d ever arrive or not, and not knowing who you’d meet along the way. Could be fun, could be dangerous, but it’d never be dull. Some folks just wanted to have a story to tell to others. The search of adventure.”

More like misadventure, I think to myself. We stare-off into the distance. Low broken mountains and plateaued mesas. It’s that moment before nightfall that feels like the world’s holding its breath. The moon rises and floods the valley floor with hazy silvery light. Starshine blinks through the luminous mist. A distant wolf-call breaks the breathless silence, answered by a far-off pack.

“This place feels different,” I say.

“The desert,” he says. “When the sun sinks, you can’t help but notice its age.”

“Something else.”

“Badlands. The roughest country in all them territories.”

“It feels bad.”

“For those who know it, it ain’t.”

“Who?”

“Silent watchmen. They watched civilizations rise and fall with all them virtues and vices. The stars above watched the mountains being born and they’ll watch them die.”

“Who’ll watch the stars die?” I ask. “And who watched them being born?”

“Spirits of the wild things that lived in these plains. Out there’s sacred battle ground, one of the worst slaughters of Native Americans and cavalrymen in this country’s history. The battle at Wounded Knee. In a matter of minutes, a heap of cavalrymen and hundreds of Sioux lay dead, killed on a cold winter day.”

“Old World?” I ask.

“Late 1800s.”

“Do you remember how it goes?”

He turns up his flannel collar and crosses his arms over his chest. “The whole thing started in Nevada Territory a couple months prior. A medicine man got sick and dreamt he’d gone to the Spirit Land to meet the Great Mystery who told him the Indians’ day of deliverance was coming, and the white man would be wiped off the face of the earth. Indians would rule the land including all them ghosts who’d come back and live in harmony with their loved ones, even the big game they’d killed. He didn’t know when, but he said there’d be no bloodshed because they’d be protected by bulletproof shirts. Then he taught him a Ghost Dance to round up the warrior spirits.

“Word spread like prairie fire. Chiefs and medicine men from every nation learned the dance. They’d throw on layers of paint and dance till they passed out. Now, the Sioux of the Dakota nation was ruled by Sitting Bull, a medicine man who was particularly bad-tempered. He felt robbed of his land and he wanted to stir-up trouble. So when he taught them the Ghost Dance, he filled it with aggressive moves and painted-up the ponies like they were setting-out on the warpath. Word went ‘round to the Scouts and wouldn’t you know, they sent-out a cavalry and killed him for inciting violence. Around the same time, a heap of Sioux gathered, waiting for him to lead them down the warpath, not knowing he was dead.

“The leader of the Cheyenne intervened—Big Foot—with hundreds of warriors and bucks. The cavalry raided and told him he could fight or surrender. Unlike Sitting Bull, he was a peacemaker. He surrendered. The cavalry marched them to their campgrounds at Wounded Knee, ordered them to disarm, and went down to an Indian camp in the valley below to search for more weapons. No one really knows what happened next. Shots were fired till the creek ran red with blood.”

“Why’d they camp so close to the cavalry?” I ask.

“They set-up camp waiting for the agencies to hand-out rations.”

“What happened to Big Foot?” I ask.

“One of the first killed.”

“No bullet-proof shirts?” I ask.

He shakes his head, no.

“No dead warriors coming back to fight?”

He shakes his head, no.

“There’s no good in that story,” I say. “Your stories always have a little bit of good.”

“Mankind’s full of bitter cruelty. Wild and rough, crashing through life and destroying everything as he goes. Race, color, creed, Old World, Post World—it doesn’t matter. If civilization ever rekindles, these here ages’ll be considered so primitive and cruel, polite folks won’t ever speak of them again.”

He rakes the dying coals with a juniper branch and tosses long-burn logs over the embers. We roll into our blankets and curl onto our sides facing each other with his rifle, revolver, shotgun, and pistol laid between us. I watch the golden sparks cascading upwards till I fall asleep.

I rouse sometime later from dead sleep, my whole body rigid in alarm. Bestial howls echo in memory. I look at Joel, unmoved since we'd bedded down. His eyes are wide in panic, his face hurried and tensed. Beyond the dying embers of the fire, shadowy furred masses slink the juniper trunks, snarling and howling.

“What’s that?” I whisper.

“Keep still,” he whispers and draws his shotgun into his hand. “Wolves.”

“What?” I ask, incredulous.

“Keep. Still.”

“Thrown them the woodcock.”

“They came for us.”

In one deft move, he hands me his rifle, springs to his feet, hauls me upright, and leads me behind his shoulders till we’re back-to-back.

Heavy blows thud the branches above. “Shoot whatever moves!” he yells. He swings up his shotgun and fires into the boughs. Two dark dusky forms plummet earthbound and thud lifelessly at our feet. Two dead wolves.

I swing up the rifle and target darting shadows and dashing green eyes. Red fangs snapping, a wolf breaks the border and prowls into the clearing. I crack a cartridge into its flank. It yelps savagely as it dies, warning its kin to keep a safe distance. The movement around us gradually tapers. The juniper fringe quiets and stills. 

Joel pulls his ax from his pack, and chops juniper and pine branches into kindling. He stacks the logs over the raked coals, and stokes the flames high. I drag the wolf corpses from the clearing, their grey and black underfur saturated with blood.

We huddle around the fire with our long guns clutched to our chests, our eyes rimmed red and arid from the dense choking smoke. Dark clouds blot the stars as a great storm gathers and clots into a thick black tide, the far-off western skyline illuminated by silent searing sheets of lightning. It feels like a bad omen and I suppose it is.


End file.
